


Be Weak

by Fluencca



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Peter Parker Whump, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Whump, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29969286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluencca/pseuds/Fluencca
Summary: The Hex wasn't the first time Wanda accidentally lashed out, magically speaking.Peter and Tony had a front-row seat whenthathappened.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 30
Kudos: 71
Collections: 2021 Irondad Sprint Event





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This was written, very quickly (for a slow-poke like me), for the 2021 Irondad Whump Sprint Event. Be sure to check out the other fantastic works in the collection! 
> 
> I'd like to offer a quick thanks to the lovely Jinxquickfoot, who agreed to read my bizarre take on these prompts for feedback! You da best. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I absolutely began writing this before the final 4 episodes of WandaVision aired... The similarities are coincidence (great minds?)
> 
> The prompts I used:
> 
> **Double-Vision**
> 
> **Instability**
> 
> **Eyes Open**
> 
> with a brief but special guest appearance by:
> 
> **Hoarse**
> 
> **Numb**
> 
> Enjoy!

It had to have been the water.

She’d seen the bottled water in the fridge, but it had struck her as an unnecessary American luxury when there was running water in the house. For days she’d drunk the tap water, and the others either didn’t notice or didn’t think to stop her.

They probably didn’t notice.

And now it was the middle of the night and Wanda stumbled out of bed, unable to stand upright for the piercing pain shooting through her middle. Stumbling down the hall, the light is harsh from the bathroom overhead and the bolt sliding into place is _so loud_ —no, no, no, time to—on her knees at the toilet, her guts wrenching and twisting cutting off her air. But oh, God—she didn’t need to be sick. Wanda pulled herself onto the toilet as—she gasped—this pain shot, pulsated, retreated and then extended down her legs and up across her ribs, over and over.

When she finally collapsed onto the rug she absently wondered if the others would have to break down the door to retrieve her body. Maybe she shouldn’t have bolted the door.

She shivered and curled into a tighter ball on the rug.

She missed Pietro.

He’d have known about the water. He thought about things like that.

Another cramp began building and she prayed she could breathe through it, because she didn’t think she had the strength to sit back up again.

 _I’ll take care of you,_ Vision would tell her, and she realized she was fluttering between a dream and a shabby rug on a floor. She leaned into the dream.

 _You’ve suffered so much, my love._ She pretended to feel his arms around her, real, solid, warm.

——

Peter Parker wakes up to cold metal comprehending him in a crushing mockery of a hug, unable to free his arms or struggle or even gain enough air to cry out as he’s lifted clear from his bed and taken out the window. His head bangs against the window, hard

 _—_ —

 _You don’t like to dwell on all you’ve lost. But I know, and I know I can’t keep letting you suffer alone. You need to share the burden,_ Viz said, and his voice was so kind Wanda wished again that she hadn’t locked the door. If someone were to come check on her, she’d tell them everything, she’d stop carrying all her guilt and aloneness and orphanhood like a calling card.

——

“You need to share the burden,” he says and Tony can barely hear him above the wind up on the roof, and he can barely see his dark, sinuous form. He only has eyes for Peter, standing at the very lip, balancing on the balls of his feet while his heels hang off the stone edge. He’s stiff as a board, afraid to breathe too deeply or move his hands at all

——

 _I’ll always take care of you. I’ll always love you like you deserve._ Wanda panted through a series of tremors. What she wouldn’t give for some water.

——

“It’s time for you—both of you—to get what you deserve.”

~*~

“Stark? Stark, you’re needed upstairs. On the roof.”

Tony rolled over and tried to blink himself awake.

“Jar, what time is it?” he whispered, then caught himself. Pepper was away. He wasn’t used to her being back, and he wasn’t used to their new place in the City. The view from the penthouse was nice, but he missed the ocean. He rubbed his eyes to clear the tired thoughts, then sat up and cleared his throat a few times. Why had he thought of Jarvis?

“It is three twenty-five a.m., but I am not Jarvis.”

Tony swallowed a groan. Of course not. It hadn’t been Jarvis in over two years.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Viz. What’s up?”

Tony began pulling on pants, an undershirt, cast around for socks.

“I’m not quite Vision, either. It’s best you come see. Mr. Parker’s life quite literally depends on it.”

And just like that, Tony was wide awake. He dropped the shirt he was pulling on and rushed out his room, barefooted and only half-dressed. Vision had ceased communicating with him after urging him to hurry. Tony tried to call up Friday, but she wasn’t responding. Neither were the phones or the internet. He paused by the door only to grab his watch and activate the Gauntlet. It hadn’t sounded like Vision was worried the attack was ongoing, but Tony wasn’t going to be unprepared.

Or, more unprepared, because whatever this was, it was off his radar of possible eventualities and that was not an easy place to be. Peter wasn’t supposed to be this far uptown at this hour. It was a weeknight, a _school_ night, for fuck’s sake, and Tony hadn’t used that term since 1984. He hammered the button to the elevator, and once inside he slammed on the close-doors button, then entered his code for roof access. What the hell was going on?

The doors opened to a small access hallway, and Tony was across it in a moment, pushing open the heavy door to the roof. The building towered high enough above the City for the wind to run wild, and Tony had to brace himself against it as he let the door slam shut behind him. Nothing. He turned around, looking for the commotion.

What he found was an image of a perfect still-life on the south corner of the rooftop.

The scene imprinted itself without bothering to register first; Tony could recreate it, every displaced element of it, with his eyes closed. But he had no idea what he was looking at.

The kid was standing on the very edge of the roof, barefoot, as though he were pulled straight from bed. His t-shirt and loose pajama bottoms whipped in the wind, and he fought to stay balanced. He held something in his hands, and though he was facing Tony his eyes were on the figure beside him, on…

It looked like Vision, but—no, it hadn’t been lying; it wasn't him, but some nightmarish copy, gray and scaly. The engineer in Tony clocked the metal, mixed pieces of nickel and steel and iron wrought to mimic Vision’s physique. A copy made of scraps.

In his forehead a stone glowed with a soft, red pulse.

The Nightmare must have sensed him there, because it immediately raised its dead, white eyes to Tony’s. In an instant a connection was formed, an invasion of hatred and fear and a burning sense of injustice somehow made Tony feel anger and shame at the same time. He forced his eyes away from the thing. 

“Pete? You okay?”

The kid shifted his gaze to meet Tony’s, moving only his eyes.

“Mr. Stark, get—”

“You were told not to speak,” Nightmare Vision interrupted, calmly. He was conducting an event. “Don't force me to end this sooner than I had intended." The foul version of Vision, who spoke in Jarvis' voice, walked to the kid and raised a knuckle to knock on the thing the kid was holding to punctuate his words.

Peter reacted as though he'd been hit. His whole body tensed around the thing, as he half-gasped in breathy disbelief. He raised his eyes to the thing, then to Tony, then let them rest between his hands as he made a deliberate effort to regulate his breathing. His entire outline jerked with the effort. Tony didn't know what could have made the kid react like that. He looked terrified.

The kid raised his eyes to Tony, an instinct he couldn't help. Tony was afraid he’d try to warn him again.

He raised a finger, and spoke to the… robot? android? shell? 

“Stop, who are you, what is this?” As he spoke, Tony twisted his wrist to activate the Gauntlet. He felts its reassuring weight gloving his hand.

“No,” Nightmare Vision said, softly, turning lightly on his heel to face Tony. With a intricate movement of his fingers that was both familiar and all wrong, Tony’s hand fell to his side, useless.

“What is this?” Tony asked again.

“All will become clear and made right when you regain consciousness,” that thing said, and before Tony could piece together the puzzle that was taking shape, something—

~*~

Peter saw the smallest of the water tanks on the roof barreling towards Mr. Stark, but he didn’t dare warn him even though every moral imperative was telling him he should have. When that version of Vision set him down on the roof, he hadn’t had five seconds to catch his breath before this thing was shoved in his hands, and he was warned that any movement would set it off. It was bad enough trying to figure out why this was happening and how not to _boom_ himself out of existence when it was just him, but then Mr. Stark stumbled out onto the roof looking like he’d just woken up, and everything got so much worse. So he did nothing but wish he was smarter as he watched silently as that water tank crashed into Tony, breaking over him as he fell to his knees, dazed.

He wasn’t unconscious, not exactly, but it seemed that Tony had no will of his own to exert. He didn’t resist as his arms were pulled forward around the support beams of the nearer, larger tank, and cuffed there in thick, heavy-looking metal bracelets. He tried to raise his head but only managed to slump it to the other side. He tried to open his eyes but only managed to roll them as they failed to find purchase in the outside world.

Peter watched him struggle against this half-consciousness in small bursts, always returning his own eyes to bomb he was holding. It was heavy, easily upwards of 600 pounds, and while the weight itself wasn’t too bad yet, holding it perfectly level and perfectly still was getting hard. At least the warmth was keeping his fingers from getting too stiff. Stupid Vision put him on the very edge of the roof, and balancing on the balls of his feet was making his calves burn. But he could hold for another minute, easily. Another minute was doable. Another minute would be fine.

It had been maybe thirty or forty more minutes when the sky began to lighten, and a few minutes after that when Tony began to come to. Vision’s evil twin had stood perfectly still the entire time with his back to Peter, watching Tony. All things considered, that suited Peter just fine. He didn’t want to have to see those milky eyes staring venom at him on top of everything else.

Peter focused on his breathing, on stretching his fingers as much as he could, on making it through one more minute, when a harsh rattle forced his eyes up. Mr. Stark was pulling ineffectually at the heavy cuffs around his wrists, fighting to move forward even though there was no way either the cuffs or the heavy metal frame would give. And he wasn’t even looking at Peter, but at the bomb he was holding.

Peter looked back down at this, and made sure his grip was tight.

Scary Vision spoke to Mr. Stark then, his voice familiar and amused, like he was sharing a joke. “You recognize the warhead, of course. It was laughably easy to find.”

 _Warhead?_ Jeez, that sounded so much worse than ‘bomb.’ A million dumb villains used bombs. _Rhino_ used bombs. But this… This wasn’t Rhino. Peter’s heart pounded at the realization that this wasn’t amateur hour.

Mr. Stark sounded like he didn’t think so, either. “Why—the kid, he isn’t a part of this, he isn’t a part of anything, you can let him go.”

Monster Vision moved cross directly between Peter and Tony, and crouched directly in front of Mr. Stark.

“He is exactly a part of this, and not only because of you.”

Peter looked up at that, wishing he dared ask how exactly he was a part of what, but he wasn’t invited to the conversation. Right now, he was just a prop waiting to explode.

Mr. Stark asked the follow-up question for him.

“How? She’s angry at me, I ruined her life, fine. I get that. What’s he doing here?”

“He’s been given…” Creepy Vision laughed bitterly. “ _All_ the things she was denied. He—”

The wind cut across the rooftop then, taking the rest of the explanation with him, buffeting Peter somehow in all directions at once. He hunched his shoulders against the wind, then remembered that that was a terrible idea, and he straightened, instead. He tried inching a little forward, at least to get his heels onto the roof, but he could feel something shift inside the bo—inside the _warhead_. How, how was this something he was worried about at five in the morning? How had he managed to anger some _she,_ enough to merit… this? It wasn’t fair, and it was getting really hard to keep doing it and all he wanted to do was relax just one of his muscles, he didn’t even care which, just to rest for two minutes, and he’d be able to go again. He closed his eyes against the wind until the tears cleared, then opened them.

The wind slowed, and Tony’s conversation with… with, Ugly Vision—had he used that one yet?—came back to him. Peter tried to ignore Mr. Stark’s slightly purpling lips, the way he seemed to blink his way into every sentence, as though that could stop the shivering. At least there was no rain tonight.

“You have to share the burden,” Terrible Vision said, and it sounded like the most obvious thing in the world. “You have to share her burden. You knew, but you never bothered truly to understand what it was like watch a bomb, wondering if it is going to destroy the only thing you have left in the world. No one knew, no one cared. The lesson must be learned now.”

“Listen,” Tony said, then blinked himself into focus. “Listen, I get it, okay, I know. Now I know. But the missile that killed the Maximoffs never exploded, right? But he—” Tony gestured to Peter as best he could with his hands bound—“he’s holding the warhead of a Jericho. That’s a thermobaric weapon, okay? And I see you’ve undone the outer casing, and that means that if— _if_ —if that thing gets heated enough—”

“I’ve already preheated the nanofuels beyond their ignition threshold, and the dispersion charge is primed. Should Mr. Parker so much as tilt the device or break the vacuum currently maintained by nothing more than his hands—”

Peter’s heart dropped or his stomach roiled up but his hands were beginning to sweat and his throat was beating harder—that was wrong—but, it sounded like they were talking about—

“The scatter-cloud would ignite on contact with the oxygen, and it wouldn’t only,” Mr. Stark shot a glance at Peter, helpless and apologetic, “incinerate the kid, it’ll take out all 42 stories of this building, goddamnit, it might take out the block of it hits a gas main. Thousands of people could die. Hundreds wouldn’t even leave a body behind,” Tony was begging, by the end. 

“Innocent lives are always on the line,” Evil Vision responded, almost kindly. “That’s part of the game. Part of our job.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Game? 

The Dumb Vision stood up, and began pacing.

“You needn’t necessarily die. We’re not monsters, she and I. We only want to be seen. To be felt. For our greatest suffering to be known. The bomb is the first part. But just as equal horror no one seems to care about is what Hydra did to her…” He trailed off there, walked to Peter and back to Tony, then again. Before he returned the second time he paused by Peter, raising a hand slowly. Peter bit his lip and braced himself, but it wasn’t a blow. The thing extended a cold metal hand and ran it down the side of Peter’s face. Somehow, that was worse. Peter forced himself not to move away from the touch.

“Don’t,” Mr. Stark snapped, and there was no stammer, no shiver. Creepy Vision pulled his hand away from Peter.

“No, I don’t know what Hydra did to her, but she volunteered! That can’t be on the kid. He was barely potty trained when that went down.”

“No, that isn’t his fault. And yes, she volunteered. And she had about as much choice in the matter as you will. I’m certain you’ll volunteer, too. Did you know they made her hurt herself? That was the worst part of it.”

Insane Vision stepped onto the ledge Peter was standing on, but he didn’t touch him again. He didn’t even look at him.

“We’ve other scores to settle. You’ll notice I’ve left you your gauntlet. It's time you both got what you deserved.” He made as though to leap off the roof, then tilted his head in thought. “You know, she doesn't know how to to be heard. I’m only trying to help.”

He stepped out of Peter’s line of vision, then; Peter waited a moment, then raised his eyes to Mr. Stark. He shook his head lightly in question.

Mr. Stark sighed. “Yeah, he’s gone kid.”

A deep breath. By both of them.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

Peter took a moment to enjoy his relief that Nasty Vision was gone. Those deadened, all-white eyes… He didn’t know who _she_ was, but Peter could feel her hatred of him radiating out of those eyes. It was so strong, simple on its conviction that it made him wonder if he really did deserve it. He tried to relieve some of the pressure on his legs without moving, failed, then spoke.

“So, um, Mr. Stark? It’s not that I’m not super flattered to be punished for mysterious crimes together with you, but, uh, what’s happening?”

What he really wanted to ask was, _what do we do_ , but he suspected Mr. Stark didn’t really know, either, and he definitely didn’t need to pressure him while he was tied up twenty feet away from a bomb. The least Peter could do was handle his end of the panic. It was hiding in the back of his mind, behind the pain in his legs and the tension in his hands, but Peter recognized it and he wasn’t about to let it out.

Mr. Stark sat up as straight as he could. Now that the sky was lighter, Peter could see that must have been tricky. His hands weren’t in traditional cuffs, but in thick bracelets that were connected by a long chain that ran behind Tony’s back. Pulling his hands apart would only tighten the chain around him, and sitting up required him to lean heavily against the metal beam he was tied to. He grunted with the effort.

“First you, kid. You okay? I mean… Considering? Holding up? How long have you been holding that thing?”

“Only a couple of hours, I’m still good.”

Tony called him a liar with impressively minimal change to his face.

Peter amended.

“Well, not _good_ good, but I’m good. I can keep holding this. Mr. Stark, what you were saying before, can this thing really take out the block? Cause, I’d rather we didn’t do that.”

“Yeah,” and he wasn’t looking at Peter anymore. “Me, too. Not blowing up is almost always on my to-do list.”

“Can I just, like, yeet this thing up in the air? I got decent range.”

“It’d ignite before it cleared the roof. Forget the block, it would burn the air out of your lungs before you knew it, and the blast wave would shatter all your bones.” Tony’s eyes shut tightly as he shook his head. “Sorry. No, you can’t move that thing, not yet.”

Peter was determined not to ask the required question. He wouldn’t put that pressure on Mr. Stark.

“Okay,” Mr. Stark said a moment later. “Okay. Okay. Here’s the plan. I’m going to get out of these cuffs, I’ll get over to you and disable the ignition primer. Easy.”

“How…?”

“I blast through the chain. Nightmare Vision left me the gauntlet, remember?”

Peter tried to envision how that could possibly work. The chain ran across his abdomen under each arm and around his back. The repulsor was hardly a precision tool. There was no way to cut that chain without—

Peter reeled, took a step back to steady himself only to remember that there _was_ no back. He caught his balance and regained his footing, his grip in the warhead beginning to lightly dent it.

“Mr. Stark, no.”

“Easy, kid. I volunteer, remember? You can’t keep holding that thing forever. You’re not even fully balanced. Your legs will begin cramping, your fingers will start slipping, and the sun’s gonna be over those buildings any second now. It’s gonna get hot up here, and if that thing so much as slips…”

Peter was _not_ entertaining this. He’d been in plenty of bad situations, and he always found a way out of them. Always. For Tony to fry the chain enough to break it, it would mean also shooting himself, right in the abdomen. “Mr. Stark, I swear, I’m good. I can hold this till we find another way, or someone comes looking for us. Or for _you_ , I guess. I mean, and if you have to cut through, why not the beam you’re attached to? It—”

“It wouldn’t free my hands, and it would cause the ton-and-a-half water tank behind me to come crashing down on both of us. It might smother the bomb,” Mr. Stark mused, then regathered his thoughts. “But I’d rather not kill both of us if I don’t have to. Kid, I can do this. But—listen, please. I need something from you.

“I trust you, implicitly. But that’s not gonna cut it right now. This is gonna suck, and I’m gonna tap out. I need you to keep me on my game, okay? Don’t let me pass out, don’t let me back out. I need you to remind me that there _is no other choice._ Remind me why I’m doing it.”

“Thousands of dead people, hundreds of whom wouldn’t even leave a body behind?”

Tony shook his head. “That won’t cut it, either.

“You, kid. I need you to remind me that if I fail, if I stop, you die. I know it’s… Shit.” Mr. Stark tugged at his chains, as though to raise his hands to his face, but managed only to cut of his air with a strangled breath. he released his hands as much as the chain allowed, and leveled his gaze at Peter. It was sharper, more determined than before.

“I know it’s everything you aren’t, to remind me of those things. I know that you’d rather take the heavy lifting on this one, let me off the hook, and try to figure out another way. But there isn’t one, and we can’t wait around for one to present itself. We— _I_ need, I need you do remind me this is on me. That you’re relying on me.

“I need you to be weak for me, Pete. Do you think you can do that?”

Peter had to tear his eyes away from Tony’s. He couldn’t handle the intensity of that stare, the minute movements of his head as though to better calibrate what he was asking—demanding—of Peter. He breathed heavily through his mouth, but it felt like his lungs couldn’t get enough air. Tony was about to blow a hole in his middle, and he was asking Peter to…not only not to stop it, but to encourage it. To make it happen. To let the panic show; to let it _roam._

But… He didn’t really see an alternative, either. They could try waiting for someone to find them, sure, but Peter was also one sneeze away from killing a lot of people.

Shit.

“I, I don’t think I’m strong enough to do that, Mr. Stark.”

Tony regarded him closely, his eyes widening in his scrutiny of Peter. He came to a conclusion.

“You’re a little shit, you know that, Parker?”

Peter gave a small smile.

“How long… How many times will you have to… You know?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

And Peter heard the repulsor whine, and he blinked away the afterglow, and Mr. Stark was stifling a groan as he tried to pull his arms to check out the damage to the chain. Peter couldn’t see any, from where he was.

“Well,” Mr. Stark gasped, “more than once.”

And then he blasted the chain again, and again.

And then once more, with feeling.

After the fourth time he stopped, panting heavily. He laid his head back against the water tank. “I… It must… It’s gotta be a synthesized alloy, maybe diluted vibranium?” he breathed, and let his hands drop. He’d moved the chain slightly every time he’d hit it with the repulsor, probably so the burns would be spread-out across his body instead of scorching him straight through. But Peter could see the series of round burn marks, blackened skin delineating every blast, red, raw, and slightly bleeding in the middle. He squinted against the sun which had just peaked the buildings to his right, and hated himself.

“Hey, eyes open.”

Tony nodded, but kept his head back and his eyes closed. “A minute, kid.”

“We don’t have a minute, Mr. Stark. Any second now this thing could explode and kill a lot of people. Me included. _Eyes open._ ”

Peter forced himself to keep looking, despite the profound shame that now colored Tony’s features. Shame Peter felt himself, shame that seemed to reverberate between the two of them, growing wherever it found purchase though Peter had no doubt he was its source.

So he watched as Tony aimed another repulsor blast at the chain, then another. He encouraged him to make the blasts longer, more focused. He made his voice hard when Tony told hin he needed to rest, just for a bit.

“Eyes open.”

Tony's gasps became grunts, then screams; the burn marks became blisters, then open wounds; Peter’s words became even harsher.

The sun was higher now, and Peter’s hands _were_ beginning to sweat, and the street far below him was starting to get busy with cars and foot traffic. He closed his eyes against a persistent sunbeam, and wondered if May was worried. With any luck, she’d think he’d just left for school early. It was a shame about school—he liked Wednesday mornings best. He got to sit next to MJ in…

Peter jerked awake, then held his breath as he realized what he’d done. Jesus. Jesus. He looked across the roof, but Mr. Stark hadn’t noticed that he’d all but fallen asleep standing up. His own eyes were shut, his breathing haggard. His chest and abdomen were a mess.

“Tony!”

He jerked upright, whispering an apology as he readied for another round. “Sorry, kid, sorry. I’m…” His head slumped forward.

“Tony, look at me. Look at me.” Peter waited till Mr. Stark raised unfocused eyes his way. “I’m _tired._ I’m fifteen and I’m standing here holding _your warhead_ and I’m so tired. I can’t move, and I can’t keep this up. I can’t. You said that if this goes off, it won’t leave a body. I can’t do that to May, Mr. Stark. _You_ can’t do that to her. She’s lost everyone already, do you know what that’s like? Everyone. She’ll wake up to an empty apartment and won’t ever know what happened to me. I’ll just disappear and she’ll never know that I couldn’t even scream as I died because... How did you put it? My skull shattered and my air was burned away from me by _your bomb._ It’s not fair, and you volunteered to make this right. So keep your eyes open and _fix it._ ”

Peter didn’t know what part of that got through to Mr. Stark, but he sat up straighter, more alert. His entire front was drenched in blood, but he only tightened the chain across the burned flesh of his middle, positioned the repulsor again, and fired. And kept firing. His screams were loud enough that Peter was sure they must be heard down on the street. When he ran out of breath, he kept the repulsor trained on the chain, kept it firing. Peter could smell the burning skin, the boiling blood. He thought was going to be sick.

And the chain snapped.

Tony fell forward with an intake of air that was mostly a hiss. Peter blinked away wetness in his eyes. If he’d killed Mr. Stark, the least he could do was take responsibility for it. Witness it.

But it looked like he hadn’t, not yet. Tony shook the chains free from around his back, and rested his head on the soft white sealant that coated the rooftop. “I know, I know, eyes open,” he said—whispered—his voice scratchy, “eyes open.” And he began to drag himself across the roof towards Peter.

The going was agonizingly slow. Peter wasn’t sure how Mr. Stark would be able to even sit up once he reached the ledge where Peter was standing. He couldn’t even crawl properly. He pulled himself forward, making low sounds in the back of his throat, a trail of blood marking his route from the water tank to Peter.

Tony made it to the wall and pulled himself to a seated position, his breathing so jagged Peter wasn’t sure he wasn’t dying, after all. He wrapped a hand around his middle, gasped in pained surprise, then let his arm drop heavily to his side. “I’m not resting kid, I promise, just catching my breath.” Tony leaned his head against the wall and looked up at Peter. “Look, my eyes are wide open.”

Peter couldn’t stand how this was playing out, Mr. Stark at his feet, talking up to him, like Peter held some sort of authority over him, like he owed Peter _anything_ , let alone an explanation as to why he needed to rest. “Mr. Stark, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I’m okay, I’m barely tired anymore, you can take—take all the time.”

Mr. Stark chuckled, like he was really amused. “Sorry,” he said inexplicably. And he pushed himself around, then up to his knees, so he was at eye level with the bomb. He extended his hands, then pulled them back as he steadied himself against the ledge.

“Whoa. Dizzy. Maybe should have kept some blood inside here. Don’t drop that,” he added, pointing at the warhead.

After a moment of careful, painful-sounding breathing, Tony lifted his hands, the chain dangling loudly at his side. Peter could feel him fidget with the underside of the bomb, then a series of morosely declining beeps from within the warhead, and Mr. Stark allowed himself to collapse to the side.

“It’s done, kid. The disposal primer and ignition timer…” he stopped to catch his breath, “disabled. You can go ahead and…” Tony waved a haphazard hand vaguely towards the rooftop next to him. “drop it.”

Peter released a shuddered breath. It was done. This awful night, and awful morning, were done. It was safe. Whatever lesson the Jerkface Vision wanted them to learn was done. His lungs weren’t going to burn, his skull wasn’t going to shatter, and May wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life wondering what happened to him.

“Kid?”

This was all good news.

But Peter couldn’t release that bomb.

He tried. Or, he thought he tried. His brain told him that it was safe. Told his fingers to relax, to release. Told his feet to take a step forward, to rest the fire that was shooting up his legs and down his arms.

But the panic he’d let loose earlier, it was still free, and it made his fingers grip stronger and his muscles clench tight enough for something to feel like it was tearing in his ankle but he couldn’t, he couldn’t let go of any of it because he didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to kill Mr. Stark, especially not after he’d made him do that to himself. What he wanted was to explain this, to tell Mr. Stark that he’d be fine, he just needed another minute. Except his brain wasn’t forming words anymore than it was completing simple relay instructions, and instead of something strong, or funny, or even cogent, all he could manage was a weak, “Can’t.”

Within a second Tony was clambering back to his knees, then pushing himself up to his feet. “Shit, Pete.”

After another two further false starts and three additional expletives—two of which Peter had never heard before though together they painted a very vivid picture—Tony had the gauntlet situated under Peter’s left hand, his other touching the right. Tony’s hands were freezing, which made Peter suddenly and acutely aware of how pale Mr. Stark was. How fundamentally unwell.

Peter couldn’t even do this simple thing alone.

Mr. Stark didn’t take the warhead from him. He began by slowly massaging Peter’s right hand, stopping every few moments to adjust the cuffs or pull the chains back.

Sensation returned in a rushing flood that made Peter wish his hand had stayed numb; it hurt in a way that overpowered the strained muscles everywhere else. It was unbearable, and he instinctively flexed his fingers to regulate the blood flow there.

“Heavy,” Tony grunted as the warhead dropped onto his gauntleted hand, and he guided it to the ground in a controlled drop.

But Peter was balanced too precariously on the edge. His heels had been hanging off the edge of the roof, and without the counterweight of the warhead, he toppled clear backwards.

“NO, NO!” Peter could hear Tony yell—it wasn’t hard, he was barely a foot below the edge of the rooftop—and a second later his hand was reaching over the ledge. He looked over, and when he saw Peter standing on the side of the building, he sagged with the fleeting tension.

“I thought you plummeted to your death. I forgot… Sticky.”

“Sorry, stumbled,” Peter said, and walked the few steps up the side of the building, tumbled back over the ledge, and collapsed collapsing. God, it felt good to sit.

Mr. Stark exhaled hard, and placed a hand on Peter’s head, before collapsing next to him.

For a few long minutes, they just sat.

Mr. Stark breathing heavily, Peter massaging his hands, his legs, his forearms. Everything tingled with the feel of an electric charge with nothing to ground it, just racing back and forth between his fingertips and his elbows, his shins and his knees, his spine and his skull.

They sat and breathed.

When feeling had returned somewhat, Peter reached over and grabbed Tony’s wrist beneath the gauntlet, and snapped the cuff the surrounded it. The blackened, broken chain fell with it. Tony made a sound that Peter supposed could be a form of thanks, before silently extending his other arm. Peter broke that cuff, too.

Being, breathing.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”

Tony let his head tilt towards Peter, and shook it.

Peter let it go, but only because Tony looked like he was about to pass out, and Peter didn’t want to push him over the edge.

For a long while, not-pushing was enough.

And then it wasn’t. Peter stood first, and then helped Tony up. Peter took most of his weight—it was nothing compared to holding a warhead while standing completely still for half the night—and followed Tony’s blood trail to the water tank, then looped behind it to the short hall that led to the elevator.

Peter was practically carrying Tony now that his adrenaline rush seemed to have waned, but Tony was able to navigate the elevator codes back to his apartment.

It was the first time Peter had ever been there, and it was surprisingly… homey. Warm. Peter realized that part of him had been expecting glass walls and maybe a white-leather sofa or something. But Tony led him to a soft couch in front of a low table, and waved for him to grab first aid from a cabinet sided by shelves that held little bowls of potpourri and recessed lighting.

There were _tchotchkes_.

It made Peter feel… Like Mr. Stark was a regular person, and that this thing happened on the roof of a regular person’s home. The Nightmare Vision, Tony had called him that and it fit, knew where Tony lived, and it took Peter there to hurt Tony at home, to make his home the nexus of a devastating explosion. It was a dirty game to begin with, but it was also personal; that made it filthy.

And it made Peter angry.

Mr. Stark deserved to be violated like this, whatever she thinks he's done to her.

He allowed Tony to talk him through the first-aid, apologizing every time Tony winced as he moved on to a new wound. He made coffee while Tony had Friday summon whoever was at the Compound, and he grabbed fresh clothes for Tony, then spoke to May while Tony struggled into them.

This wasn’t right.

He was still angry when the ceiling thumped, and seconds later the elevator whirred. Peter moved in front of the sofa where Mr. Stark was sitting to stand between him and the elevator doors. He hadn’t been expecting the ceiling to dip down.

No, not dipping, someone phasing through.

“Stand down, kid,” Tony said, and tugged Peter back onto the couch beside him. “It’s Vision.”

And it was. Vision-Vision, this time, and even though Peter thought he should be on edge, the difference between him and Nightmare was practically pooling around the android in palpable energy. If the Nightmare’s eyes were dead, cold, and radiated profound, pained hatred, Vision’s were warm, empathetic, and incredibly human. There was no sense of danger around him, no lingering instinct to protect Tony. Peter knew they were safe, and he wondered how that awful thing could be Vision’s mirror image. He wondered what kind of surface could create that kind of reflection.

The elevator doors opened, and Colonel Rhodes stepped into the living area. He glanced at Peter and then took in Tony, now cleaned up but looking as though he’d been through some kind of wringer. Peter could tell when Rhodey noticed the bloody undershirt on the floor. He didn’t even seem upset.

He nodded to it. “Yours or his?” he asked as lowered himself to a chair across from Tony and Peter. Vision hovered nearby.

“Mine. He’s fine. Ish. Will be. But right now… We have a problem.”

Mr. Stark caught them up, giving them the whole tale in detail, though Peter noticed he very casually and very deliberately failed to name the _she_ and the _her_ that the Nightmare referred to. Rhodes took in the details, nodding, wincing, and glancing at Peter’s hands or Tony’s middle as the story progressed. He must have caught what Mr. Stark was not saying, because all his follow up questions were equally as vague on identities and rich in personal pronouns.

Vision, though, wasn’t taking it as well. He kept asking if Tony was sure, and if he was certain, and if there was any room for doubt. He looked pained—no, torn—with every word Tony said.

“I shall remain with you, then. If this facsimile of me is operating with her powers, you may need this,” Vision gently indicated the stone in his forehead, “to counter them.”

Tony leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He looked up at Vision. “I think you should go to her. She’s in pain. That thing admitted as much. I don’t know what’s going on, but we need to stop it at the source. Find her. Friday can point you in the right direction. Find them, find her. She needs you.”

“If she thinks you’ve sent me…”

“Then don’t tell her. You have access, you know where the safehouses are. Take her to one, do whatever you need to reassure her. But this has to stop.”

Vision nodded, and rose towards the ceiling. “I’ll find her. In the meanwhile, If my… duplicate indicated that there were additional scores to settle, you haven’t time to waste. I too believe she is operating out of pain, not malice. Trace the foci of her pain, and you’ll find the thing that attacked you. I’ll let you know as soon as I find her.”

He nodded again to each of them, and rose through the ceiling.

Mr. Stark ran a hand down his face and turned to Peter, next.

“Kid, Rhodey and I have some ground to cover if we’re gonna figure out where Nightmare is headed next. I… I know this isn’t exactly what you signed up for, but I’d prefer you didn’t go home just yet. That thing knows where you live, and it might know about your school, and we don’t know whether it’s done with you, yet. You okay to crash here? Just for a few hours, till we get this sorted.”

“One way or another,” Rhodey muttered, and Mr. Stark shot him an irritated look.

“Till we _stop_ this psychodrama. That cool?”

It was. It was very cool. Peter didn’t think anyone was free to drive him home, anyway, and he definitely wasn’t up to swinging, walking, or taking a train home barefoot in his bloodstained pajamas.

At Tony made a movement to stand up, but Rhodes called him a name and waved him down, for Chrissake, and pushed himself to his feet, instead. He got Peter clean clothes—Tony’s—and then led him to the bathroom where he could change and freshen up. When he emerged, cleaner, more comfortable, and sporting none of Mr. Stark’s blood, Rhodey led him to the bedroom.

“Grab a few winks, kid. We’ll be trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Yeah. Um, about that—”

“We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

Peter nodded. “Thanks.” He pushed the door open and closed it behind him, then froze.

This was Mr. Stark’s room.

Or, half of it was. Peter assumed the tidy half was Pepper Pots’, and that the side with rumpled sheets and a pair of tinted glasses and what looked like an arc reactor base was Tony’s.

And this presented a dilemma.

How was he supposed to sleep in here? If he chose Mr. Stark's bed…that was weird. The bed wasn’t even made on that side, like someone had just thrown themselves out of the sheets and—well, yes, he supposed that made sense considering, but still. It was far too intimate to curl up under the bedding on Tony’s side of the bed.

But it was almost weirder to sleep on Pepper’s side. Would that be like he’s taking her place? What if Mr. Stark also wanted to rest, and he came in and saw Peter in Pepper’s bed and thought that was creepy?

Peter supposed he could sleep on the floor, but if someone came in to get him, they’d think he’s this stupid country bumpkin who didn’t know about beds.

Ugh.

Peter decided not to decide. He was too wired to sleep, anyway. So he grabbed one of Pepper’s pillows and set it in the middle of the bed, and lay down atop the covers. This way if someone came in, he’d be able to snap up, and hopefully a-void the…the awkwardness entirel…

Peter dreamed he was warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this idea Tony sold the Tower but still lives in the City (at least part time), rather than the Compound, and that in the weeks/months after Homecoming he and Peter hadn't really been close enough for sleepovers and Pizza Nights, which is why Peter doesn't know where exactly Tony lives, and is unfamiliar with the inside of his apartment.


	2. Chapter Two

It took Tony and Rhodes the rest of the day to make the obvious connection. In his defense, there had been other things to see to, and getting into the head of Wanda Maximoff was actually something he’d actively avoided since the vision that led to the creation of Ultron. It wasn’t exactly that he hadn’t trusted her; he’d just hadn’t had to, and he hadn’t sought out the association.

And frankly, he’d never really thought twice about its absence. After making him—not live, exactly, but—feel through the end of the world, and forcing him into a public ring with Banner, and after overhearing her tell Nat why she’d turned to Hydra in the first place, he didn’t really get the sense she’d wanted any overtures from him, either. She clearly rejected his version of protection. He could do housing, but it wasn’t like anyone expected him to take an interest in a grieving, if powerful, teenager.

Which, if Nightmare Vision was to be believed, was what made Peter a target in this absurdist Greek tragedy. A chorus of Visions calling for the reenactment of Wanda’s past, just so she could gain a measure of sympathy.

Well, he could moralize with the chorus later. They’d finally figured out where Nightmare might be headed, and naturally there were no phones there. Rhodey agreed that it was safer to go themselves rather than involve local law enforcement, even though that had taken an extra couple of hours of prep. But the jet was here, the suits were ready, and Tony had even had a real-life medical professional change his bandages and check his wounds. Deep, but nothing important fried. He didn’t need surgery. Probably.

Part of him wanted to leave and come back before the kid even woke up, but Tony was also fairly sure that the kid wasn’t talking only about his aunt when he’d said she’d lost everyone. Considering he’d forced that confession out of the kid because he was too weak to do what needed to be done on his own, Tony didn’t really want to have the kid wake up to an empty apartment.

Tony nudged the door to his bedroom open and peeked inside. The kid was curled under the covers on Tony’s side of the bed, his hands tucked under his chin and his hair messily covering his forehead. He looked… untired, unpowered, rested and safe, and Tony hated to wake him.

He knocked lightly on the door. “Kid?”

He tried again, knocking a little louder, but the kid didn’t so much as stir.

Tony went in and carefully lowered himself onto the corner of the bed beside the kid. He raised a hand trying to figure out the least-weird way to wake a sleeping teenager, but it seemed that the shifting weight on the mattress had done it for him. The kid blinked himself awake in a moment, and sat up the next.

“Oh—um, hey. What… what time is it?”

“A little after nine p.m.” Tony nodded towards the door. “Join us outside.”

He made his best effort to seem like standing was effortless, but the kid was at his side before he could so much as brace himself against the mattress, holding his elbow and helping him stand straight up so he wouldn’t have to twist his middle.

Back on the couch, Tony told Peter to grab himself something to eat, then brought him up to speed.

“So, kid. Just wanted to let you know, we’re heading out. We think we know where Nightmare Vision is off to. I’m gonna follow, and Rhodes is going to head back to the Compound, in case we’re wrong. I got you a suit in case you want to start making your way back to Queens. I’d prefer you stayed, though. Till we know for sure he’s done with you.”

“You’re joking.”

Mr. Stark pushed himself so he was sitting erect.

“I am not. You’ve handled more than your share of this bullshit, and now we need to get this handled. I’m gonna check in on Clint. In any case it won’t hurt to give him a heads up, even if we’re wrong and Nightmare isn’t headed there. He might just as easily be targeting some Hydra personnel or the warring factions of Sokovia’s civil unrest. Regardless, you’re staying in the City.” 

“Mr. Stark, you should let me come with you.”

That earned him an exasperated eyeroll.

“I’m serious. You could use the backup, and I’m feeling much better now. Really. I can help.”

“If you’re feeling well enough to help then you’re well enough to understand why you should stay behind.”

Rhodes rolled his eyes then, and Peter felt a little vindicated.

But this wasn’t about being treated like a kid. This was about that thing that had so expertly targeted Tony and made him _volunteer_ to blast his abdomen with his own repulsor, getting a second go at him. Peter couldn’t let that happen. Mr. Stark could barely stand; he wouldn’t survive another round against that psycho robot.

“Mr. Stark, _she,_ whoever she is, she almost used me to kill a shit-ton of people. I can’t… I need to make sure that she doesn’t do that to anyone else.”

“You could use at least an extra set of eyes, Tones. We’re kinda understaffed, if you didn’t notice.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Yes, that was a demotion. And yeah, I noticed. But,” Tony turned now to Peter, “I can handle this without dragging even more innocent bystanders in. That’s you, in this scenario. You’re the innocent bystander, who’s staying put. It’s on me to fix this, now.“

Peter looked at Tony like he was struggling with his next words. He glanced sideways at Rhodey, then spoke carefully. “Mr. Stark, earlier today you… you asked me for a favor. And I hated every second of it,” the kid looked away, inhaling deeply as he selected his next words.

“I thought my last words were going to be the most awful things I’d ever said, and I hated it, but I did it. Because you asked me to—” another aborted glance at Rhodes, and while Tony didn’t appreciate the direction this was taken, he did appreciate the discretion, “—to be what you needed. To get the job done. Mr. Stark, can you be that for me? Please?”

No, Tony didn’t like this direction at all. He had known since Gulmira that Iron Man couldn’t be weak. If he left so much as a sliver of vulnerability it would be exploited, and if he was compromised the world would burn. It had almost happened in New York, it had almost happened with Ultron. It _had_ happened with Steve and the others. Iron Man needed to be there, because no one else could. Or would. What the kid was asking of him… It was antithetical to Iron Man. 

“Mr. Stark?”

Of course, the kid wasn’t asking that of Iron Man. And Tony really wanted to lean on someone who was strong enough to hold him.

“I don’t think I’m capable of doing that, kid.”

For a moment, the three of them remained silent. Then,

“You’re the worst, Mr. Stark.”

~*~

The jet was ready to go, and within minutes Tony and the kid were on their way to Iowa, pursuing what Tony really hoped was a wild goose. The last time Wanda had been in any of their minds none of them had known about the farmhouse, and by the time that had changed so had she. He rather thought he’d have heard about it if she’d violated the team _after_ she’d joined.

But he wasn’t sure, and he wished now he’d paid more attention to her. He’d obviously had some extra room on his plate, Tony thought, stealing a glance at the kid, and he wondered if some of that attention might have been diverted to Wanda. To make sure she wasn’t isolated. It was technically not his job, but that’s what happened when he let others take charge. Things got missed.

Which meant that the Nightmare wasn’t entirely wrong. Some of this _was_ his fault. And he’d really rather this didn’t go any further.

Tony landed the jet several fields over, and they advanced on foot, following the undergrowth to the left of the dirt road that led to Barton’s farmhouse. The lights were on, the truck was in the garage, and the shed was quiet.

Tony examined the open expanse between their position and the house, when the kid put a hand on his armor.

“Shhhh.”

Tony hadn’t been talking, so he just turned to look at the kid.

“I hear… That way,” he said, pointing away from the house to the tree line away to the south.

“You hear something like an animal, or your hear something like murderous pile of junk scraping menacingly along the forest floor?”

“I hear something like I think we should check it out,” Peter didn’t answer, and nudged Tony forward with a nod. “Come on.”

They double back the way they came an followed the sound the kid heard from just within the tree line. Barton had set up his homestead as though he were a professional master spy, and the eyeline from the house covered every inch for almost a mile in each direction. No need to announce their arrival, just yet.

It took a while for Tony to hear the sound the kid had been following so intently, but when he did be began to rush, even though the armor wasn’t really made for jungle warfare. He’d heard that voice in pain too many times to count.

They came to a small clearing and stopped short.

“Oh, man,” Peter whispered, and Tony thought that was a bit of an understatement.

The only light in the clearing was from the arc reactor in Tony’s suit, and in its pale glow they could see that Clint was half-standing half-hanging with his back to them, his hands bound loosely behind him with metal cuffs similar to the ones Tony had had. Clint, however, had a heavy matching collar attached to a chain, which was looped high around the trunk of the tree. The toes of his heavy boots reached the ground, but just barely, causing him to choke and gasp intermittently.

But it was the arrows that stole the show. He was pierced thoroughly with arrows—some wooden, some his specialized titanium ones, a few of the delayed charge ones Tony had designed himself. They were embedded in his arms, calves, and all along his back; when Clint’s desperate attempt to balance twisted him slightly in their direction, Tony could see that in several places he was pierced clean through. The blood running down his body had darkened the ground beneath him, thick in some places, splattered in a small circle around him. There was a lot.

Tony pointed to where the heavy chain was looped several times around the trunk and the base of a thick branch. “Kid—”

Peter nodded and went around the tree.

Clint panicked.

He stopped trying to find his footing and instead tried to twist his head to see who was behind him, and choked out, “No, no, don’t hurt them, I volunteer, I still volunteer!”

Tony crashed forward, raising his faceplate and standing against the tree so he was in Clint’s line of sight. “Easy, Barton, it’s me, it’s just me.”

Clint’s eyes locked onto his, and whatever dread or fear or defeat Tony expected to find there were vastly overshadowed by the anger. “Tony,” he choked, and that was all he could say.

Tony struggled for a moment to find a place to hold him without jostling an injury. He found no easy purchase, so he placed a heavy metal boot beneath Clint’s dangling feet, and Clint immediately took advantage of the boost. He breathed.

“Kid, how’re we coming on that chain?”

“Just a… Got it!” The kid called from above him, and the chain unlooped noisily from around the tree, and Tony realized he still hadn’t solved how to lower Clint to the ground. He grabbed for Barton’s elbows, causing a throaty exhale as muscles tensed around arrows, and tried to make sure Clint didn’t collapse backwards.

The kid bounded down from the tree, and after a moment’s hesitation reached forward to snap the thick collar from around Clint’s neck. There were a few agonizing moments, the kid straining for the first time Tony could remember. But the metal finally snapped, and Peter gently peeled it away from the chafed skin and tossed the pieces to the ground at his side. He then freed Barton’s hands with equal effort, and it occurred to Tony that the stress of last night was probably catching up to him after his long sleep. Tony made a note to take it easy on him from now.

“Tony, it’s—”

“We know.”

“She’s—”

“Yeah. We don’t think she knows she’s doing this. We’ve sent Vision—our Vision—to go find her, to get her to end this. Barton, we need to get these things out of you.”

Clint nodded, sporadically and for too long. Tony felt the ground shift uneasily beneath him. Barton wasn’t supposed to _get_ disoriented.

“Do it.”

“What, do it? You’ll bleed out if I just do it. We don’t have any first aid here, let’s get you back to the jet.”

Clint took a step backwards, his head shaking and a hand already on its way to an arrow in the opposite shoulder. Tony grabbed the hand before Clint could pull it out.

“There's no time. That… _Thing_ is in there with Laura. I don’t know what it’s doing to her. And the kids—she said it’s not hurting them when she was out here, but Tony, they haven’t eaten in two days. We can’t… I need to get to them.”

Tony sighed and looked in the direction of the house. The warm lights suddenly seemed a lot more menacing. They did need to get everyone out, but letting Barton bleed out on the forest floor really wasn’t an option.

“Um, Mr. Stark? I can use my webs.”

Tony didn’t follow.

“To bandage the wounds. It’s not perfect, but it’ll stop the bleeding.”

Clint raised his hand again to the arrow in his shoulder. Tony knocked it away again.

“How am I the only grownup here? We don’t know whether that stuff is toxic inside the body. You can’t put an untested chemical compound on an open wound.”

Peter managed to look shifty even in his mask. “Well, it’s not, though. Untested. I’ve used it on small cuts, stabs, even… bullet wounds?”

Bullet--? Tony rounded on the kid, ready to demand all sorts of answers, but Clint cut him off.

“Good enough for me. _Do it._ ”

So they did. Tony broke off and pulled out arrows, and Peter followed closely behind him with makeshift web-dressing. Clint brought them up-to-speed as they worked.

“That thing showed up here yesterday morning. It grabbed the baby out of bed to get our attention. It said we needed to share her burden, that _I_ needed to take responsibility for what happened to Pietro. His death was my fault.”

Tony couldn’t tell whether he was quoting or confessing.

“She also blames me for taking Vision away from her, for making her choose. I—I tried to reason with it, but…”

“Yeah, Spider-Man and I caught the Late Late Show last night. Not much dialogue happening. This isn’t coming out the way it came in. Sorry.”

Clint hissed as Tony pushed an arrow through to break through just underneath his collarbone, instead of pulling it all the way back. He snapped off the head and pulled out the shaft in a quick motion. He stepped aside to let the kid web up the wound.

Clint continued.

“It took us out here. Put Nate in front of this tree which I’m going to cut the fuck down as soon as I can, it raised three arrows in the air, and asked me if I was going to volunteer to protect him with my body like Pietro had. Said it was my choice, as much as Pietro had a choice. Hooked me up to the tree, and three times a day it comes out here with a different kid and asks me if I’m going to volunteer.”

Tony counted the arrows. “So Nightmare Vision has already been out here tonight? Is it coming back here?”

Clint shrugged, and tossed his torn shirt to the ground. “Last night it came back after midnight, to release the chain and lower me to the ground. Said it had ‘an errand to run, and other scores to settle.’ I didn’t know it was going to you,” he added in a low voice.

Tony extended a hand to Clint and pulled him to his feet. He took his own weight with a grimace, briefly leaning against Tony as he tried again. “I can’t really walk, but I can shoot. I have weapons in the shed.”

Tony supported Clint as he led then through the tree line surrounding the homestead. It was circuitous, but took them behind the shed and without the line-of-sight of the house.

Once inside, Clint accessed a partially hidden makeshift armory, which was fairly well equipped. He chose his arrows carefully, examining each one before stowing it in a high-tech quiver Tony had also designed.

Clint turned to a wall containing an array of bows and began testing them, while Tony stepped out of his suit to check out some of the arrows Clint had selected. Peter shifted closer to Tony.

“Are you okay, Mr. Stark?”

Tony looked down at him, surprised. “Sure, why?”

Peter pointed at the front of his shirt. It was black, but Tony could see the faint shine of blood soaking through at a couple of points.

“It’s nothing, just time for a change of bandages, I guess. I’ll be fine.”

The kid looked like he was about to argue, but didn’t. “I’m thinking maybe I should sneak in and grab the kids? Bring them out here, if we’re gonna take the fight in there.”

Tony looked over at Clint. He limped around, supporting himself against a worktable, to look at the kid. Then he spoke to Tony.

“You trust this guy?”

“Enough to bring him here.”

“We’re talking about my kids, and that wasn’t a ‘yes.’”

“Yes.”

Barton turned to Peter, then. “The boys are on the ground floor, the bedroom at the northern corner. Lila is on the second floor, other side of the house. Blue curtains. Can you get up there?”

“I was born up there,” the kid said with confidence. “Or something.” He webbed the roof of the shed as he leapt. A second web and he was deftly out of the narrow window Tony hadn’t even noticed along the top of the shed.

Clint looked at him with narrowed eyes, and after running a mental x-ray that left Tony wishing he was still in his suit, spoke.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I volunteered,” Tony said simply, allowing his eyes to follow the path the kid had taken out the window.

Clint turned back to his worktable, and after a few minutes of looking over his collection he suddnely turned towards the door, an arrow he hadn’t been holding somehow already nocked into the bowstring of the bow he hadn’t been handling. Lila Barton raced into him, ignoring the raised bow entirely. She crashed into him, crying, and he dropped the weapon as he slowly lowered himself to hold her properly.

The kid raised a thumb over his shoulder and tilted his head to indicate he’d be back. Tony nodded that he’d seen.

Tony tried to give Barton some privacy with his daughter, but the shed was small. He couldn’t help overhearing the girl beg not to play any more games, or her apologies—stuttered and gasped through tears—for getting Clint hurt.

Tony was a little relieved that internalized guilt was apparently a normal reaction to her dad being in danger. He hated knowing that he put the kid through the same thing, but at least it wasn’t a Peter-specific thing. Or even dad-specific, apparently.

The next time the door opened Clint merely reached for the bow, but didn’t raise it. His oldest shuffled in quickly, holding the youngest bundled up in blankets, still sleeping with his head against the older boy’s shoulder.

“Coop,” Clint said softly, and pulled his son into a gentle but forceful hug. The boy took charge after that, pulling his sister away from Clint and towards a hidden trap-door to a storm-cellar that ran the length of the shed. Clint had wanted to get them settled in, but Tony reminded him that wouldn’t be the best use of his energy, considering his wounds and what they still had to do. He offered to go down, himself, but found himself vetoed by the kid who definitely didn’t have veto powers.

Peter pulled it open for them, then followed them down and made sure they had access to the food and water stored there.

When the trap-door closed behind them, it was time to head into the house.

“We need a plan,” Tony said as he stepped back into his suit. With a flick of his eyes he cancelled the blood pressure readout. “Any ideas?”

“Actually, I’ve recently had some quality time for careful contemplation, and I’ve given this some thought,” Peter said. “Mr. Barton, do you have any wire? As thick as possible.”

Clint nodded him over to the far wall, where his tools and materials lay out. “That way. Why?”

Peter ran over to the worktable, examined what was on it, then opened some of the drawers and cabinets behind it. He pulled out a wide coil of thick copper wiring, and held a bit of it out to Tony. “You think…?”

Tony _did._ It was a good idea. Coil the wire around Nightmare, charge it with alternating current, and melt the goddamned thing where it hovered. Between the three of them, they would be able to distract it long enough for Tony to wrap and charge the wire.

He held his hand out to the kid.

The kid pulled the coil back.

“Kid, I’m the only one here who can fly.”

“And I’m the only one currently not bleeding out.”

“Kid—”

“And even if you weren’t hurt, Mr. Stark, I’ve never even met _her._ She knows who am I, but not what I can do, or Nightmare never would have had me holding the bomb like that. I was supposed to fail and kill both of us. You know that’s true.” He pointed at Clint for emphasis. And he had a point. There was no doubt in Tony’s mind that Clint would have been left to starve or freeze or bleed out in the woods, to die like Pietro had died. Tony supposed it wasn’t farfetched to assume he was meant to die by his own bomb, like her parents had.

“Mr. Stark, she’s, like, super powerful. That thing is strong, and we saw that she could control your gauntlet. Whoever’s making Nightmare work is strong, but not… she doesn’t think in 3 dimensions, and I do. I can get this wire around Nightmare, and then you can super charge it.”

Clint’s eyes were on him, as well, ready to accept his judgment call. Ready to hear if he was going to let the kid do this. After he’d decided he’d let him rest.

Iron Man could push through, get the job done, and possibly tear his entire middle open in the process.

Tony Stark could lean on the kid.

“Fine.”

Tony didn’t wait for the kid to respond. He turned to Clint, ready to help him limp to the house, but the kid was already at Barton’s other side, holding him. Tony rolled his eyes even though the kid couldn’t see it, and followed them.

They made it about three steps inside the kitchen when they were made.

Nightmare Vision was surprised, but prepared. It turned toward them from the short hall that separated the dining room from the kitchen. It raised its hands, and a host of arrows rose behind it.

Tony could see Laura, sitting on her knees in the living room, her arms bound by a straightjacket and some kerchief binding her mouth. He could hear her cry _no!_ all the same.

The arrows flew forward with the speed of bullets. It wasn’t really a choice if it was made for him, Tony supposed; the kid had moved far to his left, near the wall, the coil of wire hanging across one shoulder. Tony was left with only a second’s worth of conscious thought to lunge for Clint, wrapping himself around him as the arrows shot towards them.

Tony turned, still enveloping Clint, and dove behind the island in the middle of the kitchen. The arrows fell around them, though some changed direction and turned back like head-guided missiles. Tony blasted them out of their path. When no new arrows came, he risked glancing over the island.

Peter was on the ceiling, dropping and reconnecting with a hand or sometimes a toe, advancing between the barrage of arrows now aimed at him. When Nightmare realized what he was doing, the kid dropped entirely, deftly twisting and writhing midair, sometimes stepping on an arrow mid-flight to slightly readjust his spin or his direction. He had covered more than three-quarters of the distance between his starting point and Nightmare when the first arrow hit him, lodging deep in his side.

“You show skill, but you’ll never be faster than an arrow,” Nightmare said, and used the kid’s distraction to gather arrows for another barrage.

“I don’t need to be,” Spider-Man said, bending over to break the arrow close to where it protruded under his ribs. “Cause I’m faster than you!” He launched himself sideways, spinning neatly _between_ the onslaught of arrows, and Tony could see what he meant about thinking three-dimensionally. He somehow was weaving his way sideways, arrows passing above and below his arms, legs, in the crook between his shoulder and his neck; and it was all controlled, accurate, and delicate.

He landed at Nightmare’s feet, looped an end of the wire there, and then began looping around the hovering form, leaping off walls and furniture as he released more and more wire.

“C’mon,” Tony said to Clint, and helped him up. They each took position parallel to the other and at an angle from the Nightmare Vision, and did what they could to distract it from Spider-Man’s careful spiral upward.

Clint fired arrows practically as fast as the Nightmare was, while Tony deflected incoming and took some cheap shots whenever the thing left itself exposed. He could tell that Peter had just about finished with the wire, shouting at his AI to use his own conductive web to stick to the base of the Nightmare’s neck. He webbed the remaining length and shot towards Tony. He caught the web and the remaining wire, and shouted for the kid to clear.

He did, fast, retreating to the corner Laura Barton was in.

Tony charge the wire. The repulsors grew warm, then hot, as he continued to blast them at full capacity. And it was working. The copper was heating sufficiently to begin warping, then melting the Nightmare Vision’s body.

It screamed, not in pain but in anguish.

“ _YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!_ She needs you, she needs you to see so you can know her! And I will help her be seen, and I will help her be known. For once, let this be about her!”

“Bullshit,” Clint said, and shot a specialty arrow at the thing’s forehead. It connected. A beat. It exploded.

Peter turned towards Laura and Tony moved in front of Clint, keeping his repulsors going and the heat steady.

The thing was truly not alive, because even with its head gone, and all likeness to Vision gone with it, its arms lifted dramatically one final time, and as the joints that connected them to its body melted, a final burst of arrows spun around the room with diminishing velocity, until the thing was a pile of rapidly cooling metal and the arrows cluttered to the ground.

Tony didn’t think they were done, not as long as Wanda was out there feeling what ever the fuck emotion made this happen, but it was enough of a break for Clint to limp forward, cross the pool of molten metal with care, and then rush to his wife. He held her face, looking for injury, then began to scrabble weakly with the straps of the straightjacket.

“Should…?” Peter offered, and Clint moved aside.

With an utter lack of both his usual embarrassment and what passed for his finesse, Peter grabbed the thing at the collar and tore it straight down the center. Clint and Laura fell into one another, while Peter listlessly limped back a few steps and leaned against an easy chair.

Why was he—

Tony crossed the room using his repulsors and landing just as the kid tried to put weight on his left leg. He gave a soundless little gasp and collapsed into Tony's outstretched hands, only then realizing something was wrong. Tony took his weight, and he suddenly seemed so small—how had he ever let him come along?—and looked down as well. Of course, it was an arrow. Of course, the kid tried to laugh it off.

Of course, he failed.

Tony called up the kid's AI readings. The relief flooded him, starting low in his stomach and climbing, almost making him sick as it clawed its way up his throat. The arrow wasn't piercing any arteries, just muscle.

"Ow, oh, that really hurts, Mr. Stark. I should…"

"No, he shouldn't," Clint said, coming forward and roughly knocking the kid's hand away from its path toward the shaft. "That's a delayed charge arrowhead. Twenty-five thousand volts."

Clint looked at Tony over Peter's head, and shook his own slightly towards his wrists, pointed to the light burns around his neck. His meaning was clear. He’d had several of those embedded in his flesh not an hour ago. Pulling the arrow out before the charge released would only activate it sooner, trebling its potency. It was something they'd designed together for SHIELD, a way to maximize arrests and minimize loss of life.

Of course, it was one of his.

He moved his hands up, to support the kid by the shoulders.

"Kid, that's basically a taser arrow. High voltage, low amperage. Pulling it out will only make it worse. I'd say you have about another minute or so before it goes off on its own. It's gonna suck, but after that we can break it off and pull it out."

The kid looked around the room, then came to a decision, and pulled off his mask. He breathed heavily, then noticeably tried to control it. "Um, you probably shouldn't hold me, then."

Clint let go of his hand, but Tony was hesitant.

Peter shook himself free, and balanced awkwardly on one leg. "Maybe I should…" He began lowering himself to the ground, but made it only halfway before the arrow hummed, then sizzled. Peter began to scream, but the current wracking through hid body wouldn’t let it out. He crashed to the ground, writhing exactly as Tony had intended.

He made a move toward the kid—getting shocked had to be better than just standing here, watching—but Clint placed a hand on his armor. Not enough to stop him, only to remind him he was there.

Barton shook his head. “About ten more seconds.”

Tony was out of his suit and on his knees as soon as the charge died. He rolled Peter on to his side, carefully, and placed a hand on his face. He wiped at the tears, because he knew the kid would be embarrassed by them.

“Kid? Pete? Talk to me.”

“I it ay ongue.”

Tony squeezed his shoulder.

Peter rolled to his knees, supported himself on one hand, and spat blood onto the floor. Then realizing what he’d done, he looked between Clint, who was leaning on Laura. “Orry.”

“Yeah, don’t sweat it. I think we’ll be remodeling after this.”

Tony placed a hand on the kid’s face again, forcing eye contact.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. You didn’t lie. That sucked.”

“You know what’s gonna suck more?”

Peter glanced down at this leg, the sleek arrow sticking straight out of it.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice small.

Tony tried to forget the next few minutes even as they were happening. He hated how tense the kid was, anticipating the pain. He hated that every bit of reprehension was well-earned. He hated the sound of Peter screaming, _screaming,_ when it was time to pull the arrow out of the muscle in his thigh. He couldn’t stand the ease with which the kid bandaged his leg, then his middle. And he abhorred how the kid thanked him after, like he hadn’t been injured in the first place because Tony liked bastard weapons and delegated shit to a fifteen-year-old.

The kid hobbled into the easy-chair he’d been leaning against earlier when the hardened metallic puddle on the floor began to bubble, then reform. He groaned, then stood and positioned himself on the wall, where he could be upright without applying his whole weight onto his leg.

Clint raised his bow, another explosive arrow held loosely between his fingers, while he covered Laura’s escape through the window behind them. Tony moved so he was blocking the kid from the shape that began to form.

“No one thinks in 3D, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, and Tony snapped his head to see the kid now situated above him, on the ceiling. “You promised you’d let me help.”

Tony gave up on physically shielding him, but he had Friday keep a conspicuous marker on his location.

The thing took shape again, Vision’s features forming like clouds taking shape out of the metal. It spoke with Vision’s voice, and its eyes… Actually reminded Tony of Vision’s.

“Tony.”

The vitriol, the anger, the pulsating pain were gone, replaced by a concern so deep, so distraught, that Tony had no doubts with whom he was speaking. Clint lowered the bow, and the kid lowered himself with a web gently to the ground.

“Viz?”

The thing nodded. It didn’t continue forming once he had been recognized, though. “I have found her. If there was doubt, there is none, now. She’s fevered and alone. The others must have left just before her illness. It seems she lashed out in her delirium. I have severed her connection to that monster she created. I will remain with her until she is well enough to ensure it does not recur.”

“Severed? Severed how?” Clint asked. Tony couldn’t tell if he was looking to be reassured on behalf of his family, or Wanda.

“I posses the Mind Stone, Clint, from which she drew her powers. Her subconscious is as clear before me as the shortest path of an arrow is before you. Her psyche is a reality more basic than instinct for me to access.”

“So, we’re done? It’s over? No more mind games and sharing her burdens?” Peter asked, and Tony wished the kid were better at masking his fears. As it was, all Tony could do was move a little closer to him and extend an arm for him to hold for balance. The kid took it wordlessly, shifting so he didn’t have to stand on his left leg.

“Yes. It’s done. I know this does not mitigate the damage caused, but I can only apologize on her behalf, until she is able do so herself. This is something she would never propagate in her conscious thoughts. I am certain she will assure you of the same when I inform her of what has transpired.”

No one said anything for a beat. Then Clint, “Or maybe don’t?”

Tony’s head snapped towards him so fast he thought something popped in his neck.

“I just mean—the damage is done. What do we get out of letting her know what she did, while sick and unconscious?”

“Maybe a chance it won’t happen again?” Peter put more of his weight on Tony as he swiveled on his good foot to face Clint. “I almost killed a lot of people today because of her _._ What happens the next time she’s sick? Bye-Bye Queens?”

Clint looked like he was seriously considering Peter’s words. “Would that be the worst thing, though?”

Peter laughed, despite himself.

“That’s… fair. But the flu is seasonal. What happens next year?”

Clint didn’t answer. Tony could tell his mind was unchanged, but he had no solid reasons to support him. Just his gut feeling. Tony didn’t know which way he voted until he spoke.

“Next year Vision will be with her.”

“Come again?”

“What?”

“Tony?”

He looked around the room—at Clint who should be swaying on his feet but somehow looked determined and strong; Peter who _was_ swaying on his feet even though Tony knew he was determined and strong, and the image of Vision, floating somewhere on the cusp present and absent, magics upon magics that Tony didn’t understand. He didn’t know if this was the right thing to do, but it also felt like there was little alternative.

“If we tell her what happened, it will only put the idea into her head. She’ll be preoccupied with it, and who knows? Maybe she’ll start sending murder surrogates out of casual daydreams or catnaps.

“You said it, Viz. This wasn’t borne of malice, but pain. Over losing people. Her brother, her parents, you. Let’s give you back.”

“The UN has access to my transponder data, Tony. I doubt we want them to have a map, to her or the others, at a moment’s notice.”

The day was catching up to Tony with the abruptness of a blue crash-screen. It felt like one had appeared directly behind his eyeballs, cutting off access to the rest of him with a promise of pain, pain, pain, unless he rebooted and fast.

“Transponders turn off, Viz. Think outside of the box. You have access to whatever resources you need. For right now, stay with her. Help her feel better. Help her realize she’s not alone. Rehabilitation, not corrections, right? That’s all the rage? Short of collaring her and throwing her back on the raft, I don’t think there’s much we can do to stop her. Except try to help her.”

No one argued the point after that.

As they made their way back to the jet Peter raised his misgivings again.

“Mr. Stark, is not doing anything really the best solution? It feels right to you?”

Tony wanted to explain to the kid about small injuries that added up. About large injuries that compounded with time. About feeling like every decision you’ve made in life was forced on you by outside forces. Because he’d felt that way too, for a long time. He’d made weapons because his dad made weapons. He lost his parents when he was way too young, and then a decade later they’d died. He recognized the need, the hunger, to be seen, counted, considered.

Except he didn’t recognize it on Wanda, not when it had mattered. Not when it could have made a difference. This didn’t feel right. Part of Tony wanted to reprimand her, to send her to her room, to make her _see_ how much hurt she’d caused.

But when he could trace the lines of hurt so clearly, it made it hard to indict.

So he wouldn’t. It was rehabilitation, he told himself.

“No, it doesn’t feel right. But it’s the least wrong of our options, kid. And if she lashes out again…”

“I’ll find myself on another roof, being a jackass while other people get hurt?”

Tony stopped walking. He waited till the Bartons overtook him and Peter before he spoke.

“Pete, this is the most selfish thing I have ever said, and I swear to you I will never so much as think it in the future, let alone act on it: I am glad you were on that rooftop with me. I don’t think anyone else would have been able to keep me alive long enough to break free.”

Tony waited till Peter raised his eyes.

“You weren’t being a jackass, you were doing what I needed so I could disengage that bomb. And then you did what I needed and didn’t even know how to ask for, and made me bring you here. We could not have done this without you, Pete.”

The kid nodded, his eyes rimmed in pink as he took in Tony’s words, unblinking. The tears remained unshed.

Peter took hold of Tony’s arm, and they resumed the walk to the jet.

Tony’s headache flared again, and he held on to the kid, too, so they were essentially keeping one another upright.

Considering the day they had, that sounded about right.

~*~

Wanda woke up definitely not on the bathroom floor.

It was evening, and she felt _much_ better, and she was in a warm bed with warm blankets that smelled clean.

Even sleepy, she reminded herself not to look for Pietro because he wouldn’t be there. The disappointment was somehow less if she didn’t allow herself that groggy, half-formed hope.

But she’d gained a new habit after moving into the Compound, one she hadn’t been able to quit yet, even though it pained her just as much when she came up empty.

She cast her mind beyond her, hardly in conscious thought, seeking a connection that was familiar, a part of her, a physical completion that was sexual and psychological and emotional. She jerked upright when the connection was made, the circuit completed, herself found.

“Wanda,” he said gently, his accent making it sound exotic and strange, yet also undeniably hers.

She was Wanda, and he was Vision, and they were made for one another.

“How… How is this—are you real?”

“I am. I…sensed you needed me. You were ill, so I brought you here. I left a note for the others in your hand, with that number should they need to reach you.” He pointed to a burner cell the nightstand beside her.

“Where is here?” She was smiling, even though she wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t a very wonderful dream.

“Scotland.”

“But… I left, and you stayed, and what about Stark? He’d never allow this if he knew… Do you promise this is real?”

Vision moved from the chair he’d been occupying to sit beside her on the bed. He raised a hand and gently held her face. He pressed his forehead close to hers. She could feel the soft texture of his skin, the pulse of the Stone, the air of his words.

“Hello, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this has been a fantastic experience. It was my first challenge/event, and it's a very different way of approaching a story. I hope something here worked for you, surprised you, made sense, or otherwise entertained you :)
> 
> Please don't take this as an indictment of Wanda. She's such a wonderfully complex character, I'm really glad we have someone to play with who offers us the richness of all the shades of gray. I've tried to be fair both to her experience of things, and to the consequences of her emotional turmoil. 
> 
> As for Peter and Tony, well, who can resist hurting those two? Sorrynotsorry.
> 
> [Come talk all things fandomy on Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/fluencca)
> 
> As always, comments, questions, corrections are always welcome!


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